


Give Him His Head

by linguamortua



Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: BDSM, Belts, Boot Worship, Brock Rumlow Is Really Nasty, Discipline, Dominance, Extremely Dubious Consent, M/M, Rape/Non-con Elements, Rough Sex, Southern Gothic, Spanking, Under-negotiated Kink, Violent Sex, hot power top jack rollins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-07-06
Updated: 2015-07-06
Packaged: 2018-04-08 01:04:57
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,646
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4284789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/linguamortua/pseuds/linguamortua
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Anyone dumb enough to draw attention to the STRIKE team's presence before extraction tomorrow will have to be carried to the chopper on a stretcher once Jack Rollins is through with them. <i>Anyone making enough of a stir to blow our cover, you shut them up</i>, Rumlow had said. <i>I don’t care how.</i> Rollins had grinned, shark-like and savage.<i> My pleasure, boss</i>, he’d said.</p><p>Robert Frost, ‘You have freedom when you’re easy in your harness.’</p>
            </blockquote>





	Give Him His Head

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to [eatingcroutons](http://eatingcroutons.tumblr.com/) and [quiescentire](http://quiescentire.tumblr.com/) for their timely and thorough beta feedback. Any remaining errors are my own.
> 
> You can find me [on Tumblr](http://lingua-mortua.tumblr.com/).

The summer night is soft and heavy, air rich and humid and filled with the buzzing of cicadas. Small-town Texas is quiet by midnight so the surrounding countryside feels close here, animal noises and grass smells twisting through the empty streets. The streetlights are old and yellow, easy on drunk eyes, and along the main strip smaller roads are hardly lit at all. Stifled by the constant companionship of his team, Brock had wheedled a bottle of cheap liquor from the bartender and slipped away from the bar and into a nearby field. It had been dusk when he lay down, concealed in the tall grass. The dew had fallen around and over him and his shirt is still damp with it, cool condensation mixing with the hot evening’s sweat. He’d sipped the brown bottle dry, propping himself up on an elbow to drink and then sinking back down against the earth. The crunch of his heavy boots on the crumbling asphalt is irregular, and his heartbeat is thrumming in his ears now that he’s up and moving. Now and then he stumbles, scuffing grit and gravel along in front of him. He left the empty bottle in the field and he’s unencumbered, loose, floating along back to the motel on the outskirts of town.

His team are at the bar still and will be for a while. It’s hardly half an hour past midnight, and the length of the party increases in direct proportion to the length of their mission. This has been a long one, a tough one, filled with plots inside plans inside strategies with no room for error. A killing mission and a dying mission. They lost Harris on the second day and nobody’s had time to mourn him. After Rollins, he’d been the longest-serving member of their Hydra cell, and a popular one. There’ll be drinking and yelling and stories and probably a good bar fight tonight, although Brock’s left Rollins behind as his enforcer to make sure nobody ends up in jail. Rollins is a nasty piece of work – a big, meaty brawler with a broken-up face and sunken knuckles. He minds Brock because he’s not stupid, but anyone else dumb enough to draw attention to their presence before extraction tomorrow will have to be carried to the chopper on a stretcher. _Anyone making enough of a stir to blow our cover, you shut them up_ , Brock had said. _I don’t care how_. Rollins had grinned, shark-like and savage. _My pleasure, boss,_ he’d said.

The motel is dark with a single, dim bulb swinging in front of each doorway. Brock and his team have the rooms ranged along the far left, to the north. Six dingy little spaces with sagging, stained beds and roaches in the bathrooms. Still, it’s discreet, quiet and there’s hot water. It’ll do, and one way or another Rollins will make sure the kid at reception keeps his mouth shut.

Brock fumbles his key from his pocket and counts along to door eleven, touching his fingers to each metal number that he passes. He rests his head on the chipped blue door. Now that he’s stopped moving, now that there’s no longer the reassuring warm breeze across his face, he’s aware of how drunk he is. The paint scratches his forehead, tugs at his hair. He runs hot fingertips over the metal doorknob, feeling for the lock; pokes the key at it, misses. Curses quietly. He guides the key in with the fingers of his left hand and falls into the room as the door collapses open with a sad squeak that carries in the night air. His head spins and he catches himself before he falls, slapping his right palm to the carpet and shoving himself back upright. Behind him, the door creaks itself shut, pulled by the gravity of the off-kilter building. Brock clicks it closed all the way.

Under the smell of stale cigarette smoke and rot and mildew, Brock can smell himself. Standard-issue shirts aren’t designed to wick away sweat or resist odour like any fancy sports gear. They’re produced to be durable and not to ride up under body armour. Brock’s reeks like sweat and leather and nitro-glycerine, gun oil and blood and gasoline from the ancient van that they used to get to this town. He feels gritty and sticky all over. His clothing pulls against his skin, his pants chafe in his boots. He’s— the room spins.

Brock wants a shower badly, so he ignores his nausea and sits on the edge of the bed to take his boots off. The mattress sinks unevenly and he slides on the cheap, satin-y coverlet. It’s faded orange with a brown edge and abstract, quilted shapes. It almost matches the walls, which were once white but have stained to a yellowish colour, layers upon layers of old nicotine unevenly painting the cracked plaster. Boots off, he lies down for a moment, hoping the disorienting tilt and shift of the world will recede. He stares up at the maze of cracks in the ceiling. Right now, in the dive bar in town, his team will be drinking away the memories of the mission for a night, temporarily halting the barrage of blood spatter, of screams, of the heavy recoil of guns into their shoulders. Most of them are younger than Brock, now. He remembers being a kid in the military and replaying that particular reel over and over in his bunk at night. For him it went like this: the bite of sand in his eyes and throat, the endless missing legs and feet blown off by landmines and IEDs, the raids, the faceless insurgents that had to be put down hard. He doesn’t much care anymore. Hydra took care of that. These days he’s been enlightened. He sees violence for what it really is – necessary, purifying, honest.

The violence thrills him now. There’s a certain justice in the internal logic of Hydra and he loves it, craves the rush that comes from receiving orders from the heads, passing them down the chain. This, he knows, is how the world should be: shaped from above by the very best, the most powerful. He watches himself expertly move through spaces, selecting and dispatching targets with perfect, practiced precision. If they’re no match for him, they’re not worthy. If they can’t respond in kind, they’re weak. What’s the point in saving dead weight? What use are they to the new world order? Brock delivers them from their own mediocrity and they should be grateful. The world should be grateful. In these less than salubrious surroundings, his internal monologue sounds a little less convincing than usual.

Besides, Brock’s harness is digging into his back in a way not conducive to continued musing on his personal philosophy of violence. He sits up and reaches behind his back to pop the metal buckle open, but it catches and won’t give. The prong digs in under his thumbnail, making him curse. There was a moment earlier where he’d twisted out of his enemy’s grasp and rolled away, landing heavily on his back. The damn thing’s probably bent, now. Brock runs his thumbs under the shoulder straps towards his chest and mirrors the gesture as the straps wrap down towards his waist. The buckle is the only access point -- usually he can pop it open and closed one-handed, half-asleep or concussed or drunk. He fights with it, angry and trapped.

‘God damn it,’ he says to himself into the still, warm air. He tries again, angling his hand up more sharply for more leverage. ‘God _damn_ it!’ This time he half-shouts. He wraps his fingers around the buckle, yanks down hard but to no avail: the buckle is bent shut and all he gets for his efforts are stinging lines in his shoulders where the leather bites in. He stands up and kicks the nightstand, sways unevenly. There’s a long, wicked knife strapped to his right thigh and he draws it with a considering look. He really doesn’t want to cut the leather. He gets these harnesses custom-made. They last, but they’re not cheap. Perhaps later, when the others get back, someone can lever the bent prong up for him – but he shudders to think how long he’ll be paying off that moment of weakness. He rolls the knife in his hand, flipping it up hilt-over-blade and experimentally sliding it up to the buckle. Nothing. Brock yells in frustration, spins and hurls the knife. It thunks into the opposite wall with a heavy, wooden sound and Brock wipes his sweaty palm on his pants.

‘Nice temper tantrum,’ drawls Rollins, framed broad and tall by the doorway and backlit by the porch light. Brock jumps and glares at him, embarrassed to be caught by surprise. He never heard the door, but nobody hears Rollins unless he wants them to. Rollins takes a long stride into the room and locks the door behind him. Before Brock can say anything Rollins crosses the floor, grabs him by the nape of the neck and uses Brock’s drunken forward sway to shove him to the carpet. Rollins’ big boot comes down on his back, pushing his broken harness buckle into his shoulder blade. ‘Noisy sonofabitch, huh?’

‘What the fuck are you doing?’ Brock manages into the floor.

‘Followin’ orders,’ Rollins says casually. ‘You’re makin’ a lotta noise in here, boss.’

‘You—’ Brock begins, and breaks off with a grunt when Rollins leans down hard on his back.

‘Time for you to be real quiet,’ he says calmly. The calm voice; that’s the one Rollins uses when the devil in him is fighting to get out. The calm voice before he snaps a man’s fingers back in an interrogation. The calm voice before he blows a building sky high. The calm voice before his mean, punishing fingers end up around a hapless rookie’s throat.

Despite himself, Brock stills. Rollins digs in his pockets and brings out black zip ties like a little plastic bouquet. He draws Brock’s arm back by the elbow and Brock drops face-first onto the grimy carpet. Rollins pulls back his other arm to tie his wrists together firmly. There’s an art to restraining people for a long time without damaging them; it’s practically a core STRIKE skill. Brock recognises the confident tug of Rollins’ fingers as he secures his wrists and loops two more ties around and under his harness, until Brock’s forearms lie flat across the small of his back and he’s trussed to his faulty gear like a Thanksgiving turkey ready for stuffing.

Down flat and restrained like one of their prisoners, Brock silently seethes. Rollins has the advantage; fine. If he wants to be an asshole, to make a point, he can do it in private -- Brock isn’t going to risk Rollins calling in the rest of the guys to laugh about it. It’s cool, he’ll sleep off the booze on the floor; he’s tired anyway. And then he feels the cold bite of a knife against his hip. It slides up his ribs to his armpit, jerks away down his arm, and in a sudden rip of cloth Rollins pulls his shirt out from under his harness. The leather presses into his sternum, suddenly tight over the skin of his shoulders and hips, immediate and just on the edge of uncomfortable. Rollins’ hands are hard on his waistband, then, popping open the buttons and stripping him naked from the waist down with professional efficiency.

‘I’m too drunk for this shit,’ Brock whines into the carpet. Above him, Rollins snorts.

‘Who’s fault’s that? You got no discipline.’ He slaps Brock on the outside of the right thigh and Brock twitches hard, rubbing uncomfortably on the wiry carpet. ‘Stay.’

Brock hears Rollins’ boots tramp towards the bathroom. He tries to turn his head to see, but the corner of the bed obscures his view. Water runs for a few moments; Rollins hums something slow and languid to himself. His deep, resonant voice echoes off the walls and blends with the cicadas outside, all delta blues and lost souls and sex. Brock shivers involuntarily. He closes his eyes against a rush of drunken nausea, and when he opens them, Rollins has padded back across the floor and is standing above him. He’s shirtless, face and neck still damp from washing, but his holsters are still strapped on over his black pants and his dusty boots are less than a foot’s width from Brock’s face. He pulls his belt free of its loops and slowly, deliberately folds it in half. He catches the buckle end in his left hand. His dominant hand. Out of nowhere, Brock remembers that _sinister_ used to have something to do with left-handedness, with witch hunts. The air is very thick and humid low down on the floor, and he tells himself that’s why it’s suddenly hard to breathe.

There’s a certain expression that Rollins sometimes wears when he watches someone on the cusp of cracking in an interrogation. He wears it when a rookie’s mouthing off to him, not yet aware of who he is and what he’s capable of. It’s nearly impassive, but there’s a hint of amusement about the mouth that’s almost imperceptible and yet very present. He’s wearing that expression now.

‘What are you doing?’ Brock asks, quick and low and knowing that the answer makes no difference. How could he stop anything Rollins chooses to start – call for help? Beg the rest of his team to run in sloppy drunk and save him from Rollins? He cranes his neck sideways and catches Rollins’ boxer’s face twist into a lopsided smile. Rollins rests the toe of his right boot on Brock’s cheek. It doesn’t hurt. It just stops him moving his head off the floor. Rollins takes a deep, audible inhale and then brings the belt down across Brock’s bare ass with a smooth, percussive sound. 

A line of heat blooms on Brock’s skin and he bites down hard on his lip. So this, this is what it is. Brock’s never been fussy about what kind of woman he takes to his bed, past a general sense of aesthetic pleasure and a willingness to let him take the lead. Rollins is an enigma to him: never talks about women or men, never sneaks away to fuck in a bathroom, never takes anyone home. Is this how Rollins operates? Does he pick a target and stalk them, predatory and controlling?

Rollins hits him again, a firm swat right underneath the first. Again, a little lower. The fourth strike catches the tops of his thighs and it burns; Brock grunts through his gritted teeth. The fifth really smarts. Rollins stripes him rhythmically, working from the fleshiest part of his ass down to just above his knees. It takes about a dozen strikes. Rollins pauses and Brock lies there, muscles rigid, awaiting the next blow.

‘Relax,’ says Rollins. Brock snorts. Rollins presses his boot down on Brock’s face, makes him feel it. ‘Relax or I’ll damage you,’ he says, firmly. Brock forces himself to loosen his muscles. ‘Good,’ Rollins says, and brings the belt down on Brock’s ass again. Strike, pause. Strike, pause. Strike, pause. Rollins has perfect aim, never overlapping a blow. Three times he whips Brock from buttocks to thighs, methodically working him over. The third time Jack starts on the backs of his thighs makes tears stand out in Brock’s eyes; it burns, blood rushing up to his skin and throbbing. His neck is cramping from the pressure of Rollins’ boot and his upper back has started to ache, shoulders working hard to counteract the way his hands are bound. Rollins moves his foot and Brock glares up at him; he’s gazing down at Brock’s back, looking over his work with professional pleasure.

‘A picture would last longer,’ gasps Brock through the stinging down his buttocks and thighs.

‘That ain’t a bad idea,’ Rollins allows, raising his eyebrows. He slides a hand into his back pocket and draws out his phone, flipping it over deftly and unlocking it with a thumb. In his big fingers it looks cartoonishly small. Brock flinches at the shutter sound. When Jack crouches next to him, Brock lets his eyes close. He doesn’t want to see it. Jack grabs his chin, pinches it between thumb and forefingers. ‘Here,’ he says. ‘Open your eyes.’ Brock cracks his eyelids open and tries not to focus. ‘Look,’ Jack says, a dangerous edge creeping into his voice. Brock looks. He’s stretched out face-down in the photo, the muscles of his thighs and ass standing out in a way that would gratify him were he looking in a mirror. His wrists are twisted tightly into the small of his back and he’s facing away from the camera; he remains anonymous. It’s his skin, though, that draws the eye. Brock’s olive-skinned and darker for sitting out in the sun, but now he’s striped with neat red lines that stand out as though they were painted on. His legs are candy canes to the knee, even rows of parallel lines in a testament to Rollins’ steady hands.

‘I guess you’re going to show it around, huh?’ Brock spits. Rollins slides his phone back into his pocket and looks at him appraisingly.

‘This thing’s between you and me,’ Rollins says. ‘I got no need to share it.’

‘Why are you—’

‘You’re an angry sonofabitch,’ Rollins tells him. ‘Ain’t no man happy in his skin acts like you do. Runnin’ around all desperate for approval, puffin’ out your chest so nobody’ll miss you. Your bullshit’s gonna get someone killed.’

‘You’re _demoting_ me?’ Brock asks, incredulous. Rollins laughs in a way that resonates deep in his chest.

‘I got no desire to lead,’ he says, ‘but I got a strong feelin’ that you don’t either.’ He leans down and gets hold of Brock’s harness again, gathering it up like reins. ‘Up,’ he commands. ‘Get your feet under you. Jack’s gonna take care of you.’ Brock’s bare feet scrabble on the hard carpet. His skin is vivid with the stinging pain of the belt; he feels electric, hyper-aware of his red-raw-tender thighs, his ass. His harness is chafing him a little now, pulling at his bound wrists whenever he moves. He’s positioning his body carefully to avoid the hurts, like a horse moves his head to lessen the tugging of the bit in his mouth.

Rollins – _Jack_ – guides him over to the bed, bends him at the waist so his chest is flat on the slippery bedclothes. His hamstrings are tight under his heated, whipped skin.

‘Stay,’ he says almost absently, patting Brock’s hip. There’s a rustling sound and Brock hears the zips on his duffel bag. ‘Hmm,’ Jack vocalises to himself, rummaging. He comes back to the bed; Brock can feel his body heat radiating onto his own skin. Two big hands fall onto his hips for a moment and Brock arches up almost imperceptibly. He’s not getting off on this – he’s _not_ , cock soft against the bed covers – but it feels good to be touched. Good to be touched in private, intimately. This kind of touch, warm and secret, is so far away from heavy shoulder slaps between friends, from the hurried physicality of fucking a woman he hardly knows, from handshakes and punches and bodies haphazardly thrown together as a quinjet banks. It’s just for him. Just for now.

When Jack next touches him, it’s a wet thumb running down his ass and he flinches away.

‘Ah, fuck,’ he whimpers, conflicted; it just slips out and he immediately flushes with the embarrassment of showing weakness. _Too late for that_ , sneers the tight core of insecurity in the back of his mind. He wills it to shut up.

‘Easy,’ murmurs Jack, and he presses his thumb into Brock’s ass. Brock’s never had anything in his ass before.

‘Don’t you fucking dare,’ Brock spits, starting to squirm against his restraints in panic. This drunken evening has taken on the surreal character of a dream. He might have been able to write it off tomorrow as a prank; the weird, male bonding bullshit that happens when they’re all adrift after a mission and waiting for evac. Like the time Mack got high, freaked out, shouted that the walls were closing in on them and climbed up a fire escape to sleep on the roof all night.

This, though – it’s real. If Jack fucks him, he can’t deny that reality. Getting fucked by his second in command can’t be explained away by alcohol and stress and guys being guys. Jack’s thumb twists in him, curls down and Brock shudders suddenly, unable to ignore the ripple of warmth. He feels it in his balls, down his spine and he clenches up and gasps into the bed. He wants to resist; he pulls away. Jack slaps him hard, right on the swell of his ass where’s he’s hurting from the belt. ‘Fuck you,’ Brock tries to say with venom, but he’s muffled by the obnoxious comforter.

 ‘You were movin’ up in the world, then you had to ruin it,’ Jack sighs. He wraps his thick fingers around the shoulder straps of Brock’s harness and hauls him off the bed. ‘Down you go.’ Brock hits the floor hard this time. ‘Make yourself useful, then,’ Jack tells him, lifting Brock’s chin up with the toe of his right boot.

‘What?’ Brock says, trying not to whine. Jack raises an eyebrow and looks pointedly at his boot. ‘You’re fucking kidding me,’ says Brock.

‘Naw,’ Jack says. ‘Clean it off.’ The way he says it – matter of fact, fully expecting compliance – makes Brock feel – he’s tense but he’s expectant, on the edge of excitement.

‘With—’ he begins and Jack interrupts him.

‘Lick it off.’

The toecap of Jack’s boot is gritty and tastes faintly of rubber and boot polish. Brock tries not to think about where it’s been over the past few days. He tries not to give in to the swell of drunken tiredness in his body; he tries to pay attention. Jack’s given him no directions so he laps at the leather from the tip of the toe back to the wide seam below the laces. His mouth feels dry but he’s got just enough saliva to make it work. He glances up at Jack – is it right? Is this right? Jack’s stance is wide and he’s got one thumb hooked in his belt loop. It’s his _satisfaction_ pose; it’s how he stands when he’s watching the new boys training hard, or running inventory for the quartermaster. Anyone who’s with the STRIKE team for long learns to recognise that pose and be soothed by it. Everything is as it should be, it says. Everything is under control.

Brock feels better. Jack gives him the other boot, shifts his weight and his stance in a way that makes the taut muscle of his belly play under the skin. Brock breathes out a tiny sound when he starts licking over the left boot. The second time around is more familiar.

‘Good,’ Jack says, sounding a little distant above him. ‘Ain’t life easy when you do as you’re told?’ His voice is warm and reassuring and – oh God, Brock is getting hard. The carpet is scratchy, stiff and worn more in some places than others. His cock rubs against it uncomfortably as it swells and he lifts his hips a little. From Jack’s vantage point it must look like an invitation, because then Jack’s pulling him to his feet again, steering him to the bed and guiding him down flat. Jack’s knee nudges at his thigh, bending Brock’s leg at the knee and opening him up. Brock imagines how he looks right now. He imagines the sight of his pink, spanked ass, his balls hanging full and heavy in plain sight. He rubs against the slick, satiny bed cover; Jack lets him, so it must be okay.

This time it’s Jack’s fingers that are wet and pushing up against his ass. Jack slips one inside, crooks it like before and this time Brock jumps like he’s been shocked; it’s good, it’s good, it sends a thrill through him. He temporarily forgets how stiff and sore he’s feeling. The room turns over when Jack fits another thick finger up him. He’s drunk, still, his mind is starting to drift away from _what are you doing_  and _what is this_ and into a heavy, confusing fog of lust. His face is hot. His mouth is half-open, tongue dry and still tasting of boot polish and leather and rubber.

He licks his lips but he’s got no saliva left – it just makes a dry, papery sound. The bed tilts as Jack leans somehow, stretches for the duffel bag. He finds Brock’s forgotten canteen, unscrews the cap and cups Brock’s cheek. The water bottle hovers an inch from his lips.

‘Please,’ whispers Brock. Jack lets him drink. The water’s warm and metallic, almost sickly, but he drinks as much as Jack will let him. He licks his lips again; better. Jack’s back over him now, straddling his raw, reddened  thighs so his pants rub rough on Brock’s skin. He opens Brock up with his fingers. They feel alien, on the edge of pain but just touching pleasure when Jack moves his fingers right. Brock’s so tired now, so drunk; he’s loose and slack-muscled as Jack starts fucking him with his fingers. The stretch of Jack’s knuckles is tight in him and he makes himself relax, trying to smooth out the drag. It helps, a little. Jack’s fingers move slickly now, slipping into him straight and then curling down, pressing at the spot that makes his balls tighten. When Jack pulls his fingers out, Brock pushes his ass up, feeling suddenly bereft.

‘Patience,’ Jack instructs. ‘Get me wet first.’ He looms up over Brock, one hand bracing himself against the mattress, and with the other hand unfastens his pants. His cock springs out, full and dark and curving upwards in his fist. Brock doesn’t need to be asked again; he knows what to do now. He twists his head as far to the right as possible, sticks his tongue out for Jack’s dick. At first Jack takes it easy, rubbing the head up against Brock’s tongue. It’s salty with sweat, a little musky. Brock licks at it, wanting the taste, and it shocks him down through his belly to his cock when Jack lets out a quiet groan on his exhale. Yeah, he can make Jack feel good. He wants to. He cranes his neck for more, tries playing his lips over Jack’s foreskin, sucking a little. He bites his tongue and feels the spit well up, licks sloppy and wet across Jack’s skin. _Get me wet_ , Jack had said; oh, Brock knows where Jack’s smooth, hard cock’s going next. He moans against it, feeling mixed up, feeling sweaty and warm and hypersensitive in his own skin.

‘All right,’ Jack says, kneeling up. He shifts Brock across to the centre of the bed like he’s stacking gear in a Jeep. ‘You do what I tell you, okay? You do as I say.’ He swings his knee over Brock, positions himself and lines his cock up. The head of it pushes up behind Brock’s balls, slides smooth up to his asshole. Jack nudges closer; Brock can feel the man’s pulse beating through his cock. He spreads his legs wider, arches his lower back inwards. He wants Jack to want him. He wants to open himself up for it. He can’t quite make himself beg for Jack’s cock but he doesn’t have to because Jack’s speaking to him again, spreading Brock’s ass apart and telling him something. ‘Bear down,’ Jack commands, as if he’s repeating himself. Brock does it, and Jack pushes into him. It hurts, it’s a lot, but Jack’s breath is hot on his back, Jack’s long, low moan vibrates through his body.

Jack fucks him slow and deep, taking his time. Brock is pinned on his front and about all he can do is shift his hips as Jack pulls out and let his cock rub on the bed. ‘Mm,’ hums Jack in his ear. ‘Rub yourself off.’ The way Brock’s hands are bound behind him makes breathing difficult. Jack knocks the air out of him when he thrusts, makes Brock suck in each breath like he’s dying. He’s light-headed from it, huffing and gasping every time Jack fucks into him. Jack’s thrusts are deep now, bottoming out hard and then dragging back slowly, sparking against Brock’s prostate. With every spike of pleasure, Brock rubs against the comforter with a little jerk of his hips. It’s better than fucking girls, better than jerking off – there’s nothing to compare to this. Jack’s weight over him, Jack’s cock up him, the pressure of his belly grinding his own dick into the mattress.

Brock’s babbling under his breath now, sobbing out on every rushing exhale, begging, begging for more, for release, whimpering _Jack Jack Jack_ whenever Rollins’ calloused fingers move across him, formality and chain of command forgotten in his desperate, burning need to come. Jack moves one big hand to his hair but he’s no longer restraining Brock, just reminding him, gentling him like a spooked animal. His fingers flex against Brock’s scalp, easy and slow. Then he’s bringing a hand down to Brock’s chin, turning him to look into the mirror across the room. Brock stares: his face is wet, he realises, hair sweaty and plastered unevenly to his forehead. His mouth is slack. When did he start crying? Brock doesn’t remember the last time he cried.

‘Look at that sweet face,’ Jack says, words rushing out in a long exhale of breath. ‘Look at that.’ Brock mumbles something in return, some meaningless combination of formless vowels. ‘Come on, boy,’ Jack says in his molasses drawl, ‘come on my dick.’ Brock whimpers again, something like _please I want_ or _please touch me_ and Jack laughs low and dirty. ‘You come on my dick or you don’t come at all.’ He punctuates the sentence with deep thrusts, marking out the rhythm of his words in the tight press of his cock head. Brock mouths helplessly against the bed and Jack groans above him. He manages one more slow drag on the covers and then he’s coming, writhing in his restraints and rubbing himself through the pulses of his orgasm. He’s wet all over, sticky over his belly and the bedsheets and slippery over his ass where Jack’s lubed him with God knows what, and he’s wet on his cheeks and face from tears and drool. He gasps, twitches, over-stimulated and overwhelmed.

Jack pulls out in a long drag, heaves Brock over by his harness so he’s lying on his back. With a grunt, Jack shifts one of his thick thighs over Brock’s chest, moves up over his face. Brock’s shoulders are on fire, his ass is burning and used and sensitive; he’s fucked out, wet-faced and shamed and sticky with his own spunk. He was going to have a shower, wasn’t he? He was going to wash away the grit and dust of the past few days. Jack’s had his cock up his ass, sweaty and grimy as he is. Still he wants— he wants it, wants what’s coming — he opens his mouth. With two quick jerks of his wrist, Jack comes on his face. He doesn’t aim, just spurts onto Brock’s tongue and chin with a blissful, bone-deep moan. Jack tips his head back when he comes so Brock can’t see his face, just the tight muscular line of his neck, his bare chest, his strong, square-fingered hand on his cock.

‘Thank you,’ Brock mumbles, drooling come over his chin. He swallows, jaw working convulsively. ‘Thank you,’ he slurs, eyes struggling to focus on Jack’s face, his strong cheekbones, his tan and swept-back hair; ‘thank you,’ he says, licking his lower lip. He wants to reach out and touch Jack but all he can do is squirm flat on his back. Jack smiles down at him, just a little quirk of his lips.

‘Good boy,’ he says, reaching for his knife. He rolls Brock onto his side like a half-empty sack of rice and cuts his restraints with a flick of the knife tip. Two or three little tugs at the harness and Jack can work it loose with one hand. He drops it unceremoniously to the floor. Brock groans, flopping over onto his back; life is flooding back into his arms and hands and it hurts, it prickles under his skin and he feels limp and helpless. Jack rubs briskly along his arms and the pins and needles explode into pain. He floats, feeling disconnected from his body. The water canteen comes to his lips again and he gulps down the last few mouthfuls of the flat, tinny water, Jack’s hand on the back of his neck to steady him. Brock’s own hands don’t quite feel attached yet, but he reaches up in a daze and touches Jack’s face. ‘I ain’t kissin’ that mouth,’ Jack says, richly amused, but he bends his head and presses an open-mouthed, sucking kiss to the hollow of Brock’s neck.

Brock’s head lolls; he’s already drifting to sleep, loose and satiated. He’s vaguely aware that he has somewhere to be tomorrow but it’s not important any more. Jack’s disentangled himself, moving to the bathroom. Brock drowses, then jerks awake when he hears the floor creak. In the doorway, backlit by the orange light outside, Jack’s turning to look back at him with one hand hooked over the top of the door.

‘Behave yourself,’ Jack tells him with a grin, and he quietly closes the door behind him.


End file.
